


Heartbreak Hotel

by LuxInvictus



Category: RWBY
Genre: Cloqwork Orange - Freeform, Crime Time, Fluff, Happy Ending, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Magpie, Misunderstandings, Multi, Rated for alcohol use, alcohol use, cloqwork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuxInvictus/pseuds/LuxInvictus
Summary: Ozpin and Roman have been acting weird all week. Having secret conversations. Scouting out fancy hotels. Qrow is convinced they’re planning to leave him, but he couldn’t be more wrong.
Relationships: Cloqwork Orange, Ozpin/Roman Torchwick, Qrow Branwen/Ozpin, Qrow Branwen/Ozpin/Roman Torchwick, Qrow Branwen/Roman Torchwick
Comments: 14
Kudos: 32





	Heartbreak Hotel

**Author's Note:**

> This was my contribution to the first Shipwrecked fanzine, published March 2020! It's a free zine celebrating all sorts of Qrow ships with great art and fic. <3
> 
> Here is the URL of the Tumblr page if you'd like to download it!
> 
> https://shipwreckedfanzine.tumblr.com/post/612683074910699520/ship-wrecked-fanzine-is-out

Qrow downs his third, no, fourth glass of whiskey in one go and plonks the empty tumbler onto the counter with a hearty smack. “Another one for the bir’day boy,” he slurs around a hiccup, waving vaguely in the direction of the mustached bartender leaning against the counter a few feet away. He’s in here often enough, he oughta know the guy’s name by now. He’s pretty sure he does, but right now the two names he’d rather forget are drowning out everything else. And ain’t that just typical Qrow Branwen luck.

Just nodding at—at—how’s about Barkeep, yeah, that works—just nodding at Barkeep makes the room spin around him like he’s riding a tilt-a-whirl, but he somehow manages to stay on his barstool. Yay, maybe he’s finally drunk enough to drown his damn Semblance. Or maybe his damn Semblance is just so damn drunk it turned itself inside-out and it’ll bring him good luck now instead.

Ha. And then he woke up.

Barkeep’s eyes light up, and he sets aside the glass he’s polishing to reach for the half-empty bottle at the far end of the counter. “Oh, today’s your birthday? Well, happy birthday to ya then,” he gushes as whiskey glugs into Qrow’s glass, making the ice cubes jitter and clang against the sides.

Qrow snorts at that. “Yeah. Happy heckin’ bir’day to me,” he mumbles as he watches the amber liquid fill the glass to the top. The color reminds him too much of a certain someone’s eyes, and the neon orange crow bar logo glinting off the side of the tumbler reminds him too much of a certain someone’s hair, making his chest go tight like a King Taijitu is squeezing him to death.

“Ya have any fun plans for later this evening?” Barkeep asks in a voice that’s all bubbles and glitter and sunshine, either not hearing or straight up ignoring Qrow’s sarcasm. It kinda makes him want to strangle the guy with his own bright green bow tie. “A party, maybe? Presents?” The tips of Barkeep’s bushy brown mustache curl above a smile as he sets aside the whiskey bottle and picks the glass back up.

Qrow snorts again and downs half his whiskey in one desperate gulp, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “Nope. This is my party, and the only thing I’m getting is dumped.”

Barkeep’s smile fades into a frown, brows knitting together to crease his forehead. “Ah gee, what makes ya say that?”

Friggin’ finally. Sob stories are bartender catnip, and Qrow’s been itching to rant and rave about how wrong he’s been done. Get a little sympathy up in here for the broken-hearted bird man. Hunching forward on one elbow, he gestures with the whiskey tumbler in his other hand, sloshing some over the side. “Lemme tell you a story about the worst birthday ever.”

~

Qrow saunters up the driveway, gravel crunching under his shoes as he absently sorts through the mail. After a heckin’ long day at work, all he wants to do is flop on the couch with Oz and Roman and get up to a little something that none of them will have to think about too much to enjoy. Assuming Willy Wonka decides to leave the factory today, and The Smooth Criminal isn’t out doing smooth criminal things.

Hey, a guy can dream.

Stifling a yawn, Qrow shuts the front door behind him and chucks his keys and the mail in a haphazard pile on the counter, then heads upstairs to change into something comfier. Something less ‘Professor Branwen’ and more ‘just plain Qrow.’ He’s just reaching out for the doorknob of their bedroom door when it swings open.

Oh hey, it’s Oz.

“Hey, Oz,” says Qrow.

“…yes, seven thirt—” Ozpin’s eyes go as round as his glasses, and whatever he was saying to whoever he’s talking to on his scroll ends up in a garbled “Eeep” as he flies backward like one of those cat-versus-cucumber videos Ruby showed him once.

Qrow stares at him, slowly tilting his head to the side. “Uh. You doing okay there?”

Still eyeing Qrow like he’s a three-headed Nevermore, Oz hisses something into his scroll that sounds sorta like “I’msosorryI’llhavetocallyouback,” then flings it onto their king-sized bed like it’s a stack of paperwork he’s foisting off onto Glynda. “Ah. Qrow. Hello,” he says, clearing his throat and tucking his hands behind his back in his patented Dignified Headmaster Pose. “I, ah. I didn’t hear—that is—you’re home…early?” He reaches up like he means to run a hand through his hair, then jerks it back behind himself, clearing his throat again and fidgeting in place.

Qrow stares some more, because this is just heckin’ weird. “I’m actually not,” he points out, since he’s home an hour later than usual. “What was that all about, anyway?” he adds, jerking his chin in the direction of the scroll bunched up in the blankets.

Oz goes as white as the paint on the walls. “That?” he asks, eyes darting to the bed, voice about half an octave too high. “That’s, ah. Well. That’s—it’s—” His eyes light up. “—It’s terribly confidential, I’m afraid.” He tries for a smile and ends up looking like someone punched him in the gut.

The scroll starts buzzing. Qrow gets on his tiptoes and cranes his neck to see who’s calling, determined to solve this weird-ass mystery, but Oz the incredibly tall asshole gets on his tiptoes too and leans against the door jamb, blocking his view. “It’s terribly confidential,” he says again, “so I’m afraid I can’t let you listen in. I’m sure you understand. I’ll be down in a moment.” Another smile, a quick peck on the cheek, and then Qrow finds himself nose to nose with the door.

He scowls at it like his red eyes can burn through the wood if he squints hard enough and let him see what’s going on. When that obviously doesn’t work, he throws up his hands and stomps off, grumbling under his breath. If Oz wants to be a mysterious weirdo, not like Qrow can stop him. Guess he’ll just have to cuddle up on the couch with a throw pillow and pretend it’s a boyfriend.

He’s halfway to the stairs when he hears Oz start talking again, obviously trying to keep his voice down. “…ing up on you. But yes, Saturday evening at seven-thirty…”  
  


~  
  


Barkeep hums as he twists the top off a brand new bottle and pours Qrow’s sixth—seventh—whatever—glass of whiskey. “I don’t know. He might have been telling the truth.” He goes to set the bottle aside, but Qrow grabs it before he can and takes a giant swig to let him know he can leave it right where it is, thanks.

“Yeah?” Qrow says, counter pressing into his elbows as he leans forward and waggles the bottle in Barkeep’s wide-eyed face. “Then wait’ll you hear this next part.”

~

A few days after his weird run-in with Oz, Qrow’s leaving the grocery store, hands and shoulders loaded down with those reusable cloth bags Oz insists they use, when a flash of orange catches his attention. He glances over, half Huntsman instinct, half ex-bandit instinct, in time to see Roman Torchwick slip around the corner, yakking on his scroll.

Huh. If Qrow’s sexy asshole boyfriend is skulking around in the actual daylight, it probably means he’s up to no good. A grin twists his lips. Would be a crying shame if Qrow accidentally-on-purposefully screwed up all of Roman’s dastardly plans just by existing. Shifting the bags around so he has at least one hand free, Qrow takes off after him.

A few blocks later Roman stops across the street from a tall, swanky hotel that’s all white stone and glass windows, with rows of manicured pink rose bushes and blooming cherry trees lining the courtyard. Still grinning, Qrow sneaks up behind him as quietly as he can with twenty pounds of groceries hanging off his shoulders, and reaches up to smack Roman’s hat off his head because he’ll heckin’ _hate_ that —

“Yeah, this place is perfect,” Roman is saying around the stupid cigar that’s always hanging out of his mouth, blowing smoke out of his nose like a dragon. “Qrow’ll never guess.”

Qrow freezes, fingertips just brushing the brim of Roman’s hat. This place is perfect for what? And why won’t he ever guess? He squints at Roman’s back. Who’s he talking to, anyway? Then Roman shifts his weight like he means to turn around, and Qrow’s heart nearly stops. In a burst of black feathers he morphs into bird form and scuttles into a nearby alleyway, pretending to peck at the ground. The groceries come with him just like Harbinger usually does, thank Oz.

“I hate to admit it,” Roman says with a chuckle as his fancy Mistrali-leather shoes stroll by, “but this was actually a pretty good idea, Oz.”

Qrow stops pecking and hops to the entrance in time to watch Roman vanish into the crowd. So Oz has something to do with this, huh? And what even is ‘this,’ anyway? All he knows is that a couple somebodies are getting interrogated tonight. With an angry caw, he flaps off.

That night at dinner, he springs the Atlas Inquisition on Roman. (Oz had called and said he’d be working late, but his time will come.)

“So,” he says as he smears ketchup on his cheeseburger, “saw you while I was out grocery shopping.”

Roman stabs his salad with a fork and takes a bite. “Did you now.” His poker face is as perfect as Qrow suspected it would be. But any nut will crack under the right kind of pressure.

Qrow opts for the sledgehammer approach. “What were you doing sneaking around uptown Vale?” Not that Qrow actually expects Roman to fess up, but hey, at least he knows that Qrow knows he’s up to something.

Roman gasps like he’s been sucker punched, dropping his fork with a clatter and pressing a gloved hand to his heart. “Sneaking? _Sneaking_? I make you greasy cheeseburgers for dinner and you have the nerve to accuse me of sneaking? What a nice boyfriend you are.” Sniffling, he picks up his napkin and dabs daintily at his (visible) eye. “So nice.”

“Okay, okay, jeez. Sorry,” says Qrow, holding up his hands. So much for the sledgehammer approach. He takes a huge bite of his burger to give himself time to regroup and rethink tactics. “What were you doing, then?” he blurts out as soon as he swallows, ‘cause if all you’ve got is bad luck, might as well press it.

Roman smirks, wineglass poised in front of his lips, a glint in his suspiciously dry eye. “Sneaking.” He takes a sip and waggles his (visible) eyebrow at Qrow.

Qrow glowers at him. “I heckin’ hate you,” he growls, ripping off another chunk of burger like he’s a starving lion tearing raw meat off a live cow. Or tearing off Roman’s stupid face. That works too.

Roman just winks and blows him a kiss. “I know. Now shut up and eat your roadkill.”

~

“An’ you wanna hear the icing on the cake?” Qrow slurs from where he’s slumped over the counter top, head cushioned on one arm, waving the other around in the air. Before Barkeep has a chance to opt out of his rant, he barrels right on. “Las’ night, I caught ‘em all, all—” he grabs some nearby salt and pepper shakers and knocks the tops together with a clack “—whisperin’ in the living room, but they clammed up as soon as I came in. And when I got home this afternoon, they were both _gone_.” He shoves the shakers as far down the counter as he can so Barkeep understands just how gone they were. They topple over and sprinkle condiments everywhere.

Barkeep fidgets with the same glass he’s been cleaning all evening, lips pursed in thought. “I don’t know,” he says for the hundredth time during Qrow’s sob story like the disbelieving disbeliever he is. “Are ya sure they’re not —”

“They’re dumpin’ me on my birthday!” Qrow wails, slamming his balled up fists on the counter as hard as he can. Just the thought of it makes the backs of his eyes and his throat burn, so he snatches up the whiskey bottle for another swig. Or tries to, but his stupid eyes lie to his stupid hand about how far away the stupid bottle is and he ends up smacking it over instead, spilling the stupid whiskey everywhere. Qrow watches it puddle across the laminate, then looks to Barkeep. “You got a straw?”

Barkeep sighs and sets aside the glass, then pulls a rag from beneath the counter. “I think ya’ve had enough,” he says, flashing Qrow a small but kindly smile as he wipes down the bar.

Qrow grabs his glass with clumsy fingers and holds it at the edge of the counter to catch any stray drops that might escape. “C’mon, it’s not even six-thirty yet. And it’s Saturday.”

“I think ya’d best go home. It sounds like you and your boyfriends need to have a heart-to-heart.”

Qrow pouts as Barkeep chucks the whiskey-soaked rag into the sink and takes away the now-empty bottle. “Haven’ you been listening?” he asks, turning his equally empty glass around and around in his hands. “They’re not…there…” He trails off as a thought pokes him hard enough in his booze-addled brain to get his booze-addled attention, and he suddenly knows exactly where they are.

Those jerks are schmoozing it up at that swanky hotel without him. Gotta be. What else was all the whispering and sneaking around for, if not some, some _tryst_?

Qrow slams the tumbler down on the counter top. “You know what? You’re right. I’mma go talk to ‘em. Right now.” He spins around on the bar stool so fast his stomach almost turns inside-out and then launches himself at the exit, bumping into tables and chairs and a couple other customers (”Hey!”) (”Watch it!”) as he goes.

“Oh, hey, wait a sec. Ya didn’t pay,” Barkeep calls after him.

“Jus’ add it to my tab!” Qrow yells without looking back, taking the stairs down toward the pier two at a time. As soon as he hits the shadows, he shifts.

Sometime later (could have been minutes, could have been hours, he’s fuzzy on that whole 'time' concept right now), Qrow lands in the same alley he’d used to spy on Roman earlier that week. The hotel looks like something out of Oz’s fairy tales, all glittering golden lights against the blue-violet evening sky. They couldn’t have picked a better place for their little rendo—rounde—their tryst. It kinda makes him want to barf.

Squaring his shoulders, Qrow lurches across the street and crashes gracelessly through the heavy double doors, eyes flicking around the lobby in search of the check-in counter. Once he picks it out he shuffles over, footsteps heavy on the white-and-gold marbled floor, which might actually be real marble. Whatever it is, it’s too expensive for him too look at, much less walk on.

The receptionist, who looks more like an ancient librarian, seems to agree, staring at Qrow like his rumpled clothes and dirty shoes are polluting the swanky lobby with their dirty hobo vibe. “Can I help you, sir?” she asks, sounding like the only thing she wants to help him do is walk back out the door.

Qrow leans heavily on the granite counter top, both to piss her off and because standing upright is starting to get real hard. “Maybe,” he says, willing his eyes to stop seeing triple. One copy of this snooty lady is enough for the world. “I’m looking for Headmaster Ozpin. You seen him?”

She sniffs snootily and consults the array of screens in front of her. “Here for the event, I presume?”

“Sure.” Here to crash it, more like, but she doesn’t need to know that little factoid.

More sniffing. More swiping through screens. Then, “Headmaster Ozpin should be setting up in Ballroom C on the third floor. Shall I call and inform him that—”

“Nah. Thanks. Bye.” Before she can finish her spiel, Qrow smacks the counter and dashes off. Or tries to, but he stumbles over his own two feet and ends up having to hug the wall on the way to where he hopes the elevator banks are so he doesn’t fall down, all while wondering why the hell Oz needs a ballroom.

A few minutes, a couple wrong turns, and only one drunken face plant later (a new personal best, yay), he finds out exactly what Oz needs a ballroom for when he flings open the doors to Ballroom C, stomps inside, and jerks to a halt when the view basically punches him in the face.

At least half a dozen round tables dot the room, decked out in black table cloths and fancy centerpieces with red and white flowers and candles. Black and silver balloons tied to the backs of the dinner chairs twist and dance in the air. Twirly black and silver streamers loop from tiered crystal chandeliers, their light reflecting off a hardwood floor so glossy he can see his own slack-jawed face gaping back at him.

And oh hey, Ozpin really is here, standing on a step ladder at the back of a room hanging a banner. At the sound of the doors slamming behind Qrow he whips around so fast he almost falls down, bracing a hand against the wall to stay upright. His jaw drops the second he sees Qrow, but nothing comes out except a high-pitched squeaky sound, like someone stepped on one of Zwei’s dog toys.

Before either of them can say anything, a door at the far left corner of the room swings open and Roman walks in carrying the biggest three-tiered cake Qrow has ever seen. “Hey, Oz, l sto— _got_ , I _got_ the…” He trails off when he notices Oz having a stare down with Qrow, mouthing something that looks a lot like a four-letter F-word.

They all stare at each other. Then they stare at each other some more. After the staring passes the five-second mark, Qrow coughs and flaps a hand weakly at the mostly black decorations. “Did somebody die?”

That seems to break the spell of awkwardness. Roman rolls his (visible) eye so hard it’s a miracle it doesn’t fly out of his skull and splat against the nearest wall. “Oh, for fu— yes, Qrow, someone died, so I brought a cake to celebrate their funeral.” Shaking his head, he goes to an empty buffet table and plonks the cake down so hard the plastic figurine on the top tier faints into the frosting.

Ozpin hops off the step ladder, letting the banner he was holding flutter to the floor. “What are you doing here?” he demands, pointing an accusing finger at Qrow. Now that his insultingly tall self is mostly out of the way, Qrow gets his first good look at the banner and realizes that it’s a string of sparkly black letters that currently spell ‘Happy Bir.’

“It’s…a birthday party?” he mumbles, still not convinced this isn’t a drunken fever dream he’s having while passed out at The Crow Bar.

“Not just any birthday party. A surprise birthday party,” says Roman, plucking off a glove so he can pry the cake topper out of the black frosting. Qrow’s vision is still a little wonky, but it looks a lot like the number ‘forty.’

“Well. It _was_ a surprise,” Oz says, sounding as dead inside as the theoretical funeral Qrow thought this was all about. Heaving out a heavy sigh, he leans against the wall and starts massaging his temples.

It takes Qrow a couple seconds to realize what Ozpin means. Once he does, his heart takes a swan dive into his stomach. “This is all…for me?” he asks slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. Nah. It—it can’t be. Not after all the horrible things he’s been thinking about them.  
  
“Duh,” says Roman, licking frosting off his fingers and giving himself black lipstick to match his mascara. “No one else is turning the big 4-0. I’m not that old, and Oz has been there, done that like, ages ago.”

“Thank you, Roman.”

Qrow sways back and forth like one of the balloons on the chairs, fisting both hands in his hair as all the puzzle pieces slot into place. Ozpin and Roman weren’t planning a tryst or an epic way to dump his sorry ass, they were planning a surprise birthday party. For him. And in true Qrow Branwen fashion he’d gone and hecked it all up, and had almost hecked up his relationship, aka the best thing that’s ever happened to him, in the process. Tears burn the backs of his eyes, and this time he can’t hold them back. They start rolling down his face at the same time his knees finally decide to nope out on him, and he presses a hand to his trembling lips as he sinks to the floor.

His ass barely hits the hardwood before Oz is there beside him, tugging him back up on his feet. Two strong arms wrap around him from behind, and then he’s sandwiched in a double hug that smells like chocolate chip cookies and musky spiced cologne, a hug that feels and smells like home. Chest hitching, Qrow squeezes both of his boyfriends as hard as he can, sure that if he lets them go he’ll fall again. “I thought you were breaking up with me,” he sobs into Ozpin’s neck, voice choked with tears.

Roman huffs against his ear. “What d’you take us for, animals? Planning to break up with you, on your damn birthday, for like, a week?” Qrow just nods and sobs even harder, prompting Roman to sigh indulgently and pat his face. “You poor, stupid man.”

“Oh Qrow,” Ozpin murmurs, reaching up to card his long fingers soothingly through Qrow’s hair. “I’m so sorry we worried you. It wasn’t our intention. We simply didn’t want you to find out ahead of time and—well. Never mind that.”

“Want us to kiss it and make it all better?” Roman asks in a syrupy sweet voice, giving him a quick squeeze that lets Qrow know he’s completely serious even if it sounds like he’s teasing. Qrow sniffles and nods again, needing to know that they still love him even though he’s the biggest dumbass in all of Remnant.

Oz smiles down at him, amber eyes sparkling, and after a bit of shuffling around, two sets of soft, warm lips press gently against Qrow’s tear-stained cheeks. Warmth swells in his chest, but they need to know how much he loves them too, so he pulls them into a proper three-way kiss. Roman tastes like pilfered frosting, Oz tastes like hot cocoa, and even though their noses are all mashed together, it’s the best damn kiss Qrow’s ever had. It leaves him feeling all tingly and breathless and light, like he could float all the way to the moon.

When they finally break away for air a few minutes later they stay nuzzled together, forehead to forehead to forehead. Closing his eyes, Qrow takes a deep breath and lets it out nice and slow. “I heckin’ love you guys,” he rasps, and this time the tears choking his voice are the happy (drunk) kind. He couldn’t be happier about being so wrong. And even though he crashed his own surprise party, he’s sure of one thing.

This is the best birthday ever.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are very appreciated! 
> 
> Fun factoid: this fic is kind of based on a true story. My friend wanted to throw a surprise party for her boyfriend, so I and a few others came over to their apartment to help clean up and decorate while Boyfriend was at work. About half an hour before he usually gets off work, Boyfriend saunters through the door with the catering the delivery guys were just about to deliver in his hands and says, "What's the occasion?" 
> 
> We all just STARE at him, frozen in place doing our decorating/vacuuming/cleaning, and then my friend starts screaming "Nooo! Nooo! Go awaaaaay!"
> 
> It was great.


End file.
